into a sort of calefactory, which left it much warmer than the chamber beyond, or the chapel beyond that. Montguillon told the younger friar to wait behind, then led Lorenzo into the chapel alone. He stopped in front of painting, dark with soot, of an anguished Christ upon the cross. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
“You say Giuseppe isn’t dead?” Lorenzo said, when he could no longer stand the waiting. His voice echoed in the large, open room. Stone arches ribbed the chapel, holding the ceiling eighty or ninety feet overhead. “Tell me how to find him.”
“He passes from your concern for the moment,” Montguillon said, turning his face from the painting. “You have more pressing matters to consider. The question of your penance, foremost among them.”
“I’m afraid I must disagree.”
“Oh?” An unpleasant note entered the prior’s voice.
But Lorenzo stood on firmer ground now, and pressed on. “Giuseppe’s disappearance unraveled a great many contracts. Not only Boccaccio family fortunes are entwined with his enterprises, but those of other families of the Florentine Signoria. As well, we loaned a large sum to King Charles to prosecute his wars against England and Burgundy, and the Lord High Provost is eager to sign new contracts with our company.
“My brother and I came to Paris to resolve the matter of Giuseppe’s disappearance and to assign a new agent if necessary,” Lorenzo continued. “But if our man is still alive, this obviously alters a great many things. I must speak to him at once. Where is he?”
In principle, the Holy Inquisition under the command of the Dominican and Franciscan orders had no limits to its jurisdiction, save the pope himself and the cardinals. They could, and often did, direct their attentions to lords of the cloth and lords of the sword alike. Great landowners, wealthy moneylenders, professors of philosophy in the universities—all were subject. Stamping out heresy was a more urgent concern than the business of trade and finance.
Practically speaking, powerful friends could turn all but the fiercest inquisitors. And even if the Inquisition marched toward its final, glorious crusade to purify Christendom, individual inquisitors may fall in battle.
A shadow passed over Montguillon’s face. The same thoughts seemed to be passing through the prior’s mind.
“Ah, but you see,” the man said, “Giuseppe has fallen under suspicion.”
“He’s a pious man,” Lorenzo said. “Celibate since the death of his wife. He has completed pilgrimages to Jerusalem and Santiago de Compostela, and of course Rome and Assisi. Orthodox in behavior and belief.”
“We burned two witches last week,” Montguillon said. “Killed a man in a wolf’s coat, slew another that was changing from wolf to dog to hide himself. Captured two more and gibbeted them on the city walls.”
“Yes, I know. I passed beneath the gibbets on my way to the Cité,” Lorenzo said. “But what does this have to do with Giuseppe Veronese?”
“After taking the devil’s communion, the witches lay in wait on the old Roman road, where once there stood a temple to the pagan gods. For thirteen days they lured travelers into a secret grove of trees, where they placed them under a spell and performed bizarre, obscene rituals. When they were finished, they had created a pack of man wolves. Loup-garou, they call them in French.”
“This story sounds . . . unusual ,” Lorenzo said. “Who told you this?”
“We put the witches to the question, right here, in this priory. I heard it with my own ears. The witches confessed.”
Yes, no doubt they had confessed to this and many other crimes. When put to the question, everyone did.
“We didn’t catch all of the wolf men,” Montguillon continued. “But with their mistresses dead, they became wild, mindless things, unable to regain human or any other form. Once they escaped into the forest, I expected them to become savage beasts, and
“You say Giuseppe isn’t dead?” Lorenzo said, when he could no longer stand the waiting. His voice echoed in the large, open room. Stone arches ribbed the chapel, holding the ceiling eighty or ninety feet overhead. “Tell me how to find him.”
“He passes from your concern for the moment,” Montguillon said, turning his face from the painting. “You have more pressing matters to consider. The question of your penance, foremost among them.”
“I’m afraid I must disagree.”
“Oh?” An unpleasant note entered the prior’s voice.
But Lorenzo stood on firmer ground now, and pressed on. “Giuseppe’s disappearance unraveled a great many contracts. Not only Boccaccio family fortunes are entwined with his enterprises, but those of other families of the Florentine Signoria. As well, we loaned a large sum to King Charles to prosecute his wars against England and Burgundy, and the Lord High Provost is eager to sign new contracts with our company.
“My brother and I came to Paris to resolve the matter of Giuseppe’s disappearance and to assign a new agent if necessary,” Lorenzo continued. “But if our man is still alive, this obviously alters a great many things. I must speak to him at once. Where is he?”
In principle, the Holy Inquisition under the command of the Dominican and Franciscan orders had no limits to its jurisdiction, save the pope himself and the cardinals. They could, and often did, direct their attentions to lords of the cloth and lords of the sword alike. Great landowners, wealthy moneylenders, professors of philosophy in the universities—all were subject. Stamping out heresy was a more urgent concern than the business of trade and finance.
Practically speaking, powerful friends could turn all but the fiercest inquisitors. And even if the Inquisition marched toward its final, glorious crusade to purify Christendom, individual inquisitors may fall in battle.
A shadow passed over Montguillon’s face. The same thoughts seemed to be passing through the prior’s mind.
“Ah, but you see,” the man said, “Giuseppe has fallen under suspicion.”
“He’s a pious man,” Lorenzo said. “Celibate since the death of his wife. He has completed pilgrimages to Jerusalem and Santiago de Compostela, and of course Rome and Assisi. Orthodox in behavior and belief.”
“We burned two witches last week,” Montguillon said. “Killed a man in a wolf’s coat, slew another that was changing from wolf to dog to hide himself. Captured two more and gibbeted them on the city walls.”
“Yes, I know. I passed beneath the gibbets on my way to the Cité,” Lorenzo said. “But what does this have to do with Giuseppe Veronese?”
“After taking the devil’s communion, the witches lay in wait on the old Roman road, where once there stood a temple to the pagan gods. For thirteen days they lured travelers into a secret grove of trees, where they placed them under a spell and performed bizarre, obscene rituals. When they were finished, they had created a pack of man wolves. Loup-garou, they call them in French.”
“This story sounds . . . unusual ,” Lorenzo said. “Who told you this?”
“We put the witches to the question, right here, in this priory. I heard it with my own ears. The witches confessed.”
Yes, no doubt they had confessed to this and many other crimes. When put to the question, everyone did.
“We didn’t catch all of the wolf men,” Montguillon continued. “But with their mistresses dead, they became wild, mindless things, unable to regain human or any other form. Once they escaped into the forest, I expected them to become savage beasts, and
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